Wings

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The yellow finch has come back to visit our back yard feeder and brought his mate. At least, I think they are a couple since they seem to be compatible as they dine. Considerate of our pleasure, they have come to call during our dinner hour so that we can admire them— along with the cardinal family that lodges in our holly tree and my favorite, the perky chickadee.

Little chickadee

Perches on a swaying branch

To say ‘good morning.’

The butterflies will be back soon, monarchs striking in orange and black, debonair swallowtails in formal attire, and those tiny whites and yellows who will dance around the lavender.

From such small things come my epiphanies. I have a dear friend who believes that angels interact with us, and though I have had no celestial visitations, my very ordinary life has also felt the brush of wings.

That bumblebee, for instance, with the pollen-dusted legs—I watch one as it hovers about a rosebud on the new red climber. Darkest red, the bud is unfurling slowly, taking its time. The bee is in no hurry, either, for the garden is full of spring flowers.

Then there is the drift of petals from the clematis vine. Pure white are these flower-wings, each a miracle of form and balance. The clematis is even whiter today because the sky is slightly overcast. Translucent gray above—and below, at my feet spreads the dusty miller, an early ladybird napping amongst the folds of a long, silvered leaf.

Hiding from the world…

Rocked in a silver cradle

Wings folded, at rest.

The mockingbird has started to sing by the mailbox. He is an industrious fellow who makes his rounds each morning, afternoon and evening, singing at top volume to make sure we know who rules the world. I have great affection for this noisy potentate for when I wake in the dusk just before dawn, he is singing under my window as if to offer me the gift of a new day. Because the mockingbird welcomes each dawn, I do, also.

In the mailbox where the mockingbird now struts his stiff lies a letter I have just written to an old friend.  Our letters and e-mails often cross, and we laugh about ESP, but it really is not a joke. This connection of minds is as much as treasure as are the jewel colors of the finches and cardinals and the graceful dance between bee and flower. It is an understanding forged between women through long, unhurried years, a testament to shared joys and sorrows and growth.

These—garden, birdsong, friendship—are to me no less wondrous because they do not come on angel’s wings.

"Birds Eye View Of the Rain Forest"

           

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About Maureen C. Wartski

I’m Maureen Wartski, writer, artist, wife, mother, grandmother; you can see that I have many of the bases covered. I was born in Ashiya, Japan, a (then) small town which lay cradled between sea and mountains. In the evenings, we would walk along the road that ran past Osaka Bay, and a great moon would rise out of the water to turn the world to silver. I’m told that my first words were, “Big moon!” All my life I have felt the tug to write something, draw something, put together something with fabric, string and color, and the urge to create has grown through the years. I suppose, then, that it’s a natural thing that this blog be full of the things that so many of you enjoy doing…drawing, making something with fabric, and writing. Yuri's Brush with Magic, my newest book for middle schoolers follows the adventures of a brother and sister, the magic of words, and the incredible magic of the natural world. I'd love to hear from you! You can send me a note at: maureen@wartski.org/ My blog is here: https://maureenwartski.wordpress.com/ Or friend me on Facebook!

8 responses »

  1. And so angel wings in many forms may come when we watch for them. Thank you for this colorful spring message which I badly needed today.
    Blonnie

  2. THis was absolutely beautiful, Maureen. Did you make that quilt? Beautiful too! I thought the haiku you posted on the list serve was about a bird, but here I find it is about a butterfly. Actually, it fit how I felt very vulnerable today, and wanted to be put into a nest. THank you for sharing all.

  3. And thank you for brightening my day and warming my heart, Carol! Yes, the quilted piece is mine… it’s a small piece, really, but I wanted to show what a tropical bird might see as it flies over a lush forest… more wings!

  4. Oh. Maureen!
    I’m in a bsolute awe with this quilt. It is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.
    Your art has deeply touched me. Thank you for adding to the beauty of my world.

  5. This piece of writing, Maureen, is so evocative and lyrical. I can hear early spring rising up out of winter — so real is the image you create with your words. That quilt is also magnificent! The colors and their juxtaposition are just magical. Today I walked alone on a trail (actually two) in Moose Hill Sanctuary. I was the only human anywhere in sight. The stirrings of spring were all around me and I too felt enveloped in nature. Thanks for tuning us in so exquisitely. Love Fran

  6. You are too kind! Actually, spring IS lyrical… and the poet in all of us can’t help being touched and joyful. I thought of Moose Hill as I read your note… oh, the many memories.

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